Humans, Fallen Angels, and Apes
by Dialux
Summary: Mikaela doesn't believe in miracles, or fairytales, or God. But after Mission City... sometimes, a person needs to depend on something.


Mikaela doesn't believe in miracles, or fairytales, or God.

Miracles are for people willing to believe, fairytales are just hopeful stories, and God is a fictional being made up by people so they have an excuse for failing at life.

She remembers, vaguely, that she once believed in God. She went to church, sang her songs, dressed up like a normal girl… and it all came crashing down when her mother disappeared and her father cracked. Growing up, it hurt, a little, to see the way some people were able to put some blame on someone else's shoulders and rest, for a short period.

But it felt worse to blame someone she doesn't believe in, because that's just a cop-out and Mikaela's never liked excuses.

(She believes in balance, though. Good turns to evil back to good again; her bare existence will be better soon. Hope is the only thing getting her through the weariness of the days.)

The worst days, taking care of her father and working in the shop and keeping up appearances between her… shallow _friends _at school, are not the ones where she has to stay up past three to get everything done. No- it's the days when she can see no end to the slogging work, and nobody seems to _give a damn._

Miracles are for those who believe, and Mikaela knows there's nothing of heroes in real life. She's seen her father's friends, broken-pieced soldiers returning from a war they gave everything to, to a world that's moved on past them. She knows her history; knights raped and pillaged and their chivalry was dressed up to give them a form of propriety. And if God exists, why the _hell _would he have invented cancer?

She's seen the real heroes in the world, kneeling on cold grass and broken glass and holding onto some semblance of morals; other kids can call Beyonce their idol but Mikaela will always think, when she sees a tatter-dressed soldier, _you are my role model._

The filth of the gutter winds around her body like a blood-soaked banner of peace.

She respects those who have the darkness in their souls and the strength to acknowledge it more than any pale-eyed innocent who's _never had to make that kind of a choice._

* * *

Countries are always at war, she thinks, one day, walking back home from the shop. There's always a war going on, and if you live at the right time and the right place, all you can do is stare ahead and keep on moving, one foot in front of the other. Her homeroom teacher spat at the Germans, once, calling them idiots and fools for letting Hitler take control.

_"We could have stopped the Holocaust," he blathers on. "We would never have had to resort to the Atomic bomb!"_

Then what, she wants to ask, does it mean that the brilliant_, indefatigable_ US of A held its tongue on fleeing Jews and _closed their borders? _There're travesties in every country, bitter remembrances of bad events and worse times.

People fight drugs and their families, mini-wars curling around the edges of society like wisps of flame around parchment. Those in the middle simply ignore it, until the flame scorches everything they've known and there's nothing they can do.

All a person can do is clench their teeth and keep on going.

Then Sam crashes into her life- _literally; _that flying tumble from her motorcycle left permanent marks on her forearms- and suddenly she needs to believe in something beyond her dreary existence because if she doesn't _everything will fall apart._

* * *

Meeting Optimus Prime, she can't help but hate him a little bit.

He's ultimately the epitome of a _good guy. _The choice of evil has never been so much a choice as choosing between her father and jail was for her. The choice _exists, _and everyone else thinks you have one. But, in reality, the truth is as far from that as possible.

Choices _are there. _But she knows- and any teenager knows- that sometimes choices aren't really choices at all.

All of these Autobots have the tiniest hint of darkness in them. All except for Optimus.

The only tarnish on his silvered mind is his brother, but no true court would ever hold filial loyalty against him. Mikaela only learns to like him when he watches Bumblebee being dragged away and doesn't do anything; at least he knows that sometimes there are no good choices.

* * *

During Mission City, she feels… _so much. _There's terror, somewhere, and pain; her head hurts from being hit by a rock at some time and there's a gash down her calf that bleeds red.

The worst part?

She can only watch as Sam runs away from her, and closes her eyes in half-pain, half-fear. Phrases tumble from her lips as she runs in the opposite direction, prayers and benedictions and hopes that she never thought she'd believe in ever again.

Except now… she _has _to believe in something, or else the world would be falling apart at the seams around her and the only thing holding it together is a _sixteen year old boy. _

She prays and prays and prays, dragging Bumblebee back out of the fray, and when she sees Sam again it all seems answered. Then she hears that their Allspark has been destroyed, and she can't quite help her helpless- _hysterical- _laughter.

Because in saving his… friends, Samuel Witwicky has demolished any chance they can have for recovery.

(So there _is_ balance in the world. The side of good does not always win, and when it does… they don't win without losses. It's a harsh thought, but Mikaela lives in a harsh world.)

* * *

Walking home, after Mission City, she passes a small building.

It's a Hindu temple, small and squat, set amidst larger, cleaner buildings. But inside, there are sounds of people, and curiosity pricks at her. Mikaela is no Hindu- she's a born Christian that lost faith early on- but she still walks down the path and enters the building.

There's a low hum of chatter across the room; people hold flowers and colored rice in their hands. In the front, there are three people seated neatly in front of three statues, and even as she watches they begin to sing.

The words are in a fluid, lilting tone that slides over her raw nerves, soothing the traces of jumpiness in her muscles like a warm bath. She can't understand any of it, but the way one of them raises a hand and the other tilts her head says that it's a devotional song.

A very, very small part of her wants to run away.

Instead, she remains, hanging awkwardly at the lintel and unwilling to announce her presence. The warmth and camaraderie these people have for each other is not something she's ever known in her life; she's only here for the song. If she closes her eyes and ignores the cold wind at her back, she might just be back in the choir.

The next song picks up, this time higher, sharper. Separated by a language and centuries, Mikaela imagines that she can still understand the poet's frame of mind when he wrote this.

_Where are you, who are you? You come into my life, you break down my doors. Have you come to call me?_

She leaves before they finish, though the high note hangs in the air around her and she can't find it in herself to sleep that night.

There are bags under her eyes and a burden locked in her shoulders when she goes to see Sam again. He asks, gently, where she wants to go, imagining the beach or the park or the movies; a hundred places they've been separate and together, special only because of the company- though, really, she's gone to them all with her other boyfriends.

She should have something special, she thinks, tracing a hand over his warm, _alive _shoulder- they both have lived where _so many others _haven't, and if that isn't something to be thankful for she doesn't know what is- she should have something special to offer this boy whom she's saved the world with.

"Are you sure?" He asks awkwardly, surprised but trying not to look like it.

Mikaela nods and smiles back, lips stretching in a too-wide grin. She still doesn't believe in miracles or God, but she thinks that she has something to be thankful for.

And if they somehow exist- well. It doesn't hurt to cover your bases.

* * *

When they step inside the church, memories rush back- memories of laughing, innocent girls who didn't know any better and still believed in the wholeness and prettiness of the universe; memories of unbroken families and warm friendship.

Sam lingers outside- he doesn't believe in God, he tells her afterwards, but he does think that someone he knows, because his parents won't, should play nice with Him- and it's cold and damp inside. It's peaceful, too, and Mikaela presses a hand against the inside of her collarbone hard enough to leave an indelible bruise, because there's only so much pain a person can take before they say _enough._

Her lips tremble, facing the proudly-polished cross, with the weight of all the secrets and lies she's held in all her life.

She wants to spill it all, but she isn't quite strong enough- or trusting enough- to let someone else hold onto her burden.

"I thought you'd want to know," she whispers, talking instead of to the all-powerful God but rather to her mother, because she doesn't want to think that the first time she wants to spill her guts nobody'll be listening. At least with her mother, she knows that there's nobody else for her on that side of life. "That sometimes we _can _make our own happiness. I hope you found your happiness, Mom. I know… I know you didn't have it here, with us."

She spins around and walks away, before she feels the need to say anything else, but when she sits in Sam's car- a normal one- her throat doesn't feel tight and her eyes don't itch.

There isn't guilt, either, and that's a relief.

"Let's go to the beach, Sam," she says, leaning her head into the breeze and letting the thick summer air soup away her exhaustion.

_I was born with glitter in my veins, _she thinks as the wind whips all other thoughts away, and right before this one disappears, too, she smiles fiercely.

_And I don't need miracles to enjoy life._

* * *

**This was inspired by the scene in Transformers 2007, during the S7 interrogation scene. Hope you guys like it, and please, _please _remember that what I write isn't my beliefs. The title is a play off of Terry Pratchet's _Hogfather._**

**My friend took me to a Hindu singing concert a couple days ago- and that was what inspired the 'Hindu temple' scene. The song I'm talking about is Yaare Rangana... I'll see you later with a the next chapter of _Quiet Courage _soon.**

**Reviews inspire me!**

**-Dialux**


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